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This story was submitted to the website by Paula Thompson on behalf of Dorothea Clements who has given her permission to have her story on the website and fully understands the sites terms and conditions.

I was born in Rayleigh Essex in March 1938. My father Frederick Maul was an engineer who had founded a plastics factory (F.W. Maul and Son) and was required to run it during the war.

Our house adjoined the factory. It had previously been a boarding school and had a large garden with two orchards, a brook at the bottom and a field beyond. It was an idyllic place to grow up in.

I had two older sisters (Gladys b.1926 and Margaret b.1931) and an older brother (David b.1928) all of whom were evacuated for some time from their grammar school in Southend to Mansfield in Nottinghamshire. I remained at home as I was too young to be evacuated.

I remember how hard my father had to work. He would work in the office during the daytime but in order to keep the presses in the factory running he would work nights as well. He would try to snatch a catnap on the duckboard in front of the presses. It would only be for about 15 minutes. I can also remember my eldest sister who was 12 years older than me helping at times to keep the presses running as well.

My mother Constance Maul made full use of the garden we had and grew vegetables and kept chickens and ducks. I have a clear memory of a large basin of what we called ‘BEMM’ This was the family’s week’s ration of butter and marge with fresh eggs and milk to make a spread for our bread which would obviously go further and last the week.

I can remember my first day at school (Rayleigh Primary School) which was the very day of my fifth birthday. I was dressed in a pink skirt and jumper and I remember the teacher Mrs. Morecroft saying, “What a lovely little pink girl.” There were no air raid shelters for us infants. There was only room for the juniors! When the air raid siren went off, we used to sit on oval hemp p.e. mats in the corridor by the cloakroom, ready for a speedy exit if necessary.

I personally had two experiences of bombs. The first was when I awoke to shards of glass on my bed. The large sash windows of the house had been shattered by the blast from a bomb about half a mile away. The distinct crunching of broken glass under my feet as I made my way downstairs that morning remains with me.
On another occasion my mother received a telephone call early one Sunday morning in August 1944 relaying the news that the Picken Family house had been hit by a bomb. Alison Picken, my sister Margaret’s friend and her mother had been killed. Sheila Picken a friend of my other sister Gladys had survived. She had been standing at the top of a staircase and the force of the blast had blown her out of the front door. Later that morning while I was attending a service in Rayleigh Baptist church (close to the Picken house), the plaster fell from the ceiling just behind me. The church was then closed for repairs.

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